


(The future’s so bright.)

by softly (alexenglish)



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Content, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 03:39:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11546715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/softly
Summary: When I look at you all I can see are the mistakes we’re going to make.





	(The future’s so bright.)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carrigan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrigan/gifts).



> [a softer world project](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/asofterworld)

 

Harry isn’t sure why he looks. If he does even look, or if something catches his eye and redirects him unwittingly. Either way, he looks up at the balcony for the first time all night. Neon green spotlight sweeping over the crowd, lighting up the faces above them, and Harry’s gaze snags on a shockingly familiar one.

Zayn.

Except Zayn isn’t supposed to be in this part of the country. There’s a text message in Harry’s inbox with a picture of Zayn and Safaa, _much needed !_ , relief palpable, and -- Harry makes his way to the stairs without thinking about it, winding through the crowd whilst keeping an eye on the balcony.

There isn’t anyone at the top to stop him. No bouncer, no one watching. Whoever Zayn was talking to is gone now. It’s just Zayn there, holding a sweaty glass in one hand, looking out over the sea of bodies. Harry reaches into his pocket and traces the edge of his phone. He could text, watch Zayn read it as Harry stands behind him, ask him _why_ he’s in a club in London when he’s supposed to be relaxing with his family, but --

There’s something… wrong about the whole thing.

The lights are making Harry’s vision distorted, like he’s looking through the bottom of a glass, glowing around the edges, everything tinged with purple as he walks towards Zayn. He’s not drunk. He knows he’s not. Four drinks in a whole night isn’t enough to get him there, but he’s seeing double, images sliding past each other as he blinks them way.

It all shifts back into place abruptly when Harry’s hand goes around Zayn’s arm.

The background noise fades out as Zayn turns to look at him and --

“Why are you here?” Harry asks --

It’s all wrong.

Zayn pulls back, eyes going wide before his eyebrows knit together in a frown.

It’s all _wrong_.

“What’d you do to your hair?” The tips are faded green, the sides are buzzed nearly down to the skin.

There’s a picture on Harry’s phone of Zayn and Safaa from _today_. Zayn’s hair is long and black. Harry reaches out to run his hand through it, but Zayn catches his wrist gently, mouth going tight at the corners. There’s a dark smudge on the back of his right hand that Harry can’t make out. A tattoo?

“Zayn?” Harry asks, letting his arm drop.

“Do you have a car?” Zayn asks, leaning in so Harry can hear him, lips against Harry’s cheek. His beard is soft. He smells strange. Different.

“I just called,” Harry admits, rubbing his fingers against the pocket of his jeans, feeling for the shape of his phone. There’s a text from Zayn _today_ talking about his mum’s cooking and being home, and then there’s this Zayn in front of him, all wrong.

“Are you close?” Zayn asks.

“Yeah,” Harry admits.

“We should get out of here,” Zayn says, hand in the crook of Harry’s elbow, pulling him towards the stairs.

The faceless crowd parts for them, no one fusses as they leave. Harry barely remembers why he was at the club in the first place. Surely, he was with someone. Surely, it wasn’t to find Zayn, was it?

The car’s parked on the curb already, waiting. When they trip inside, the partition’s rolled up, so Harry hits it with flat of his hand, rings knocking glass. It only takes a second for the engine to start running. They pull away as Harry and Zayn get settled across from each other.

Harry can’t keep himself from looking at Zayn. This strange version of Zayn that’s still very _Zayn_ in artfully torn up jeans, graphic t-shirt with a glitching image, and loosely laced boots. Very _Zayn_ with his rings and bracelets and necklaces, and carefully controlled expression like he can’t possibly let Harry see any hint of emotion too soon.

It’s easier to categorize all the wrongness in the car as well. Street lights illuminate Zayn every other beat like a metronome. The hair, the tattoo on his hand that Harry saw earlier -- smoking lips -- ‘love’ written over top of his knuckles, the symbols on his other hand.

There’s a fullness to his face that’s more of a shock than anything else.

Harry hadn’t realized how sallow Zayn had started to look, but there’s a photo of Zayn on his phone -- pale and worn down, bruises around his eyes -- and this Zayn is such a well-rested contrast that it makes the bottom of Harry’s gut ache uncertainly.

It doesn’t seem like Zayn can stop watching Harry either, eyes meeting Harry’s over and over until the tension is nearly uncomfortable, but Harry can’t make himself look away. He wants to memorize it. Even if this is just an excruciatingly visceral dream, he wants to remember it all.

There’s no one at the hotel when they pull up, but the driver goes around the back anyway, dropping them near the service door. No one gives them a second glance as they walk through, Zayn sticking close to Harry even as they get in the lift.

They don’t say anything the whole ride up. All they do is watch each other.

The hallway is empty when they get to Harry’s floor, eerily quiet. Wrong in its quiet. Some strange in between that makes Harry’s skin crawl, hot with Zayn at his back. Harry unlocks the door to his room and slips inside, followed closely by Zayn. When he spins, Zayn is right there, eyes bright and curious, already reaching out for Harry.

He doesn’t flinch when Zayn touches him, and he doesn’t know why he _would_ , why it’s something to be noted. It’s Zayn. Despite the weirdness, the wrongness -- it’s Zayn. Zayn’s cold hands on his cheek, feeling the shape of his jaw. Zayn’s fingers playing with the ends of Harry’s curls, bouncing them with a soft smile.

“S’long,” Zayn says softly, meeting Harry’s eyes.

“Yeah, I -- yeah,” Harry shrugs, feeling warm. The connect is almost too much, the way Zayn refuses to look away. There’s an ache in Harry’s belly again, but it’s not uncertainty. It’s that familiar, warm _wanting_ he always has around Zayn.

It’s not entirely unexpected when Zayn leans in to kiss him. Quick and chaste at first, but Harry’s hands come up to grip at Zayn’s t-shirt, keeping him close, letting his jaw go soft so Zayn can kiss him slick and deep.

And Harry knows this isn’t suppose to be happening. He knows it isn’t normal. This Zayn is... wrong. This Zayn isn’t supposed to be here. He isn’t supposed to be in Harry’s hotel room, touching Harry, sliding his hands through Harry’s curls to tug his head back and press his lips to Harry’s neck.

But he is, and Harry lets him shove the shirt off Harry’s shoulders and pop the button on Harry’s jeans. And they somehow manage to undress each other without incident, still kissing and kissing and kissing as they walk backwards to the bed.

It’s not a good idea, whatever this is, but it’s happening anyway, and Harry is fucking desperate for it. For the glimpses of ink that aren’t on his Zayn’s body, for the way this Zayn is so sturdy and filled out and looking at Harry with wide-eyes, hissing out a curse when Harry straddles him on the bed, knees digging into the mattress on either side of where Zayn’s sat upright.

Desperate for Zayn’s mouth, the warm slide of his lips over Harry’s own, over Harry’s jaw and down his neck. Desperate for the way Zayn’s grabbing at him with a bruising grip like the last thing he ever wants to do is _let go_.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Zayn says roughly, voice unmistakably thick with emotion even as he fists Harry’s cock, starts to wank him. “So fucking beautiful.”

Harry gasps as Zayn speeds up, toes curling. He’s at the edge too quickly, like he’s barely 18 and they’re tugging each other off in tour bus bunks. His nails bite into Zayn’s shoulder, holding on. “Don’t -- I --” Harry sucks in a breath as Zayn slows, thumbing over the head of his prick in a way that makes Harry’s hips stutter. “I -- fuck, Z --” Harry laughs as Zayn presses soft kisses to his throat, hand moving excruciatingly slow as he waits for Harry to complete his thought.

“Want you to fuck me,” Harry finally says, knowing he shouldn’t ask, that they shouldn’t because he still has no idea why this Zayn is here with him when there’s a Zayn miles away with his family -- a Zayn that had Harry in bed similarly last week, a Zayn that _belongs_. Harry has no idea what the hell he’s thinking, but he knows that they’re both somehow _his_ Zayn, and he can’t stop himself from wanting more.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn agrees readily, eyes still so wide as he stares at Harry, like he can’t quite believe it, like he didn’t think this is where they were going to end up when they got naked.

Harry’s legs shake as he stands, making his way to his overnight bag where there’s lube stashed in the front zip. When he gets back to Zayn, he straddles him same as before.

“Like this,” Harry says, dropping the lube and spreading his thighs.

Zayn fingers him slowly. One hand reaching around, the other pressed to the middle of Harry’s back to keep him steady. They collapse into each other -- Zayn’s head on Harry’s chest, Harry’s hands running through Zayn’s hair, holding each other as Zayn opens him up.

Harry’s whole body is shaking when Zayn finally pushes in, trembling as Zayn grips his waist tightly and waits. They both gasp when Harry starts to move his hips. It would be gentle, but Harry can feel Zayn’s nails digging into his back, and Zayn’s inside of him so deeply, Harry doesn’t know which way is up.

He has no idea how long they grind together, kissing slickly, Zayn’s hands all over Harry’s body -- touching him, feeling him -- on his waist, playing with his nipples, at his throat to hold him steady whilst he whimpers helplessly.

It’s so overwhelming -- all encompassing, fully consuming. Zayn tilts his head up and looks up at Harry, mouth open on a gasp. “Missed you, missed you so fucking much,” Zayn says, sounding raw and Harry’s heart aches so much he can’t breathe.

“I’m right here,” Harry says, leaning down to kiss Zayn -- soft and tender, so he _knows_. “I’m right here.”

 

 

There’s a wide green armchair next to the window that Zayn’s sat in when Harry comes out of the bathroom, cigarette already lit. The smoke glitters silver, thick and nearly liquid, and Harry doesn’t bother questioning it.

There’s a lazy sprawl to Zayn’s limbs even though Harry can see the heavy tension in his shoulders, tattoos blacker than the starless corners of the sky. There are so many Harry’s never seen, and he hates it suddenly, how much time must have passed between his Zayn and this one, how all of it is so obvious on his skin.

“Don’t do that,” Zayn says, rubbing out his smoke against the table. There’s a thick smear of ash. Zayn doesn’t seem to care. “Don’t overthink it.”

The laugh Harry lets out is wet and confused, but he wanders over anyway, sinking to his knees between Zayn’s legs, moving so his back is to Zayn. He leans his head against Zayn’s thigh, humming when Zayn’s fingers comb through his hair.

“Why do you miss me?” Harry asks, thinking about the desperation in Zayn’s voice, the way he held onto Harry so tightly.

Zayn’s quiet for a long time. All Harry hears is his own heartbeat in his ears. There’s no bustle from the street below. Nothing in hallways. There isn’t even the white noise of the air con blowing. It’s just them. And this in between.

“Haven’t spoke in awhile,” he finally says, fingers gentling the blow by rubbing circles along Harry’s scalp.

“Awhile?” Harry echoes. His throat feels thick, tight enough to feel his pulse at the base of it.

“Awhile,” Zayn agrees.

“How?” Harry asks, biting the inside of his cheek to keep the hysterical questions from pouring out. They’re in the same _band_ , how do they not speak? How can he be around Zayn and not constantly want to touch him, to fuck him, to hold him until all their lines are blurred and there’s no telling who is who --

“There’s no point to this,” Zayn sighs. “S’not gunna change anything.”

“What if it does?” Harry asks, sitting up. He whirls around and draws himself up as much as he can whilst still kneeling. Zayn’s curved towards him already. He looks so sad, Harry wants to cry for him.

“This already happened, didn’t it?” Zayn touches Harry’s face again, so gently. And Harry has the terrible thought that he’s memorizing Harry. For later.

“What if this is the first time it’s happening?” Harry asks, keeping his voice steady so Zayn can’t hear how helpless he feels. “What if this changes things?”

“Endings don’t change that easily,” Zayn says, and Harry flinches.

There’s a moment of weighted silence -- everything this Zayn knows taking up all the breathing room between. Things Harry would ask about if only his voice would cooperate. The the only question that makes it out is: “How does it end?”

Zayn pushes curls away from Harry’s face, traces the shell of his ear, the line of his neck. “It just stops,” Zayn says, leaning back. His eyes are heavy and serious as he looks at Harry, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “It stops, and we never talk about it.”

“But I love you,” Harry says, nearly a whisper.

“Sometimes that isn’t enough,” Zayn says seriously.

“It is for us,” Harry insists. It always has been.

Zayn doesn’t say anything, lets it hang between them until it’s less and less convincing, until Harry doubts it himself. Has it been enough? _Is_ it enough? The hollowness in his Zayn’s eyes, and the distance he’s started putting between them, and the way Harry refuses to stop pushing until they’re both worn out and lost to devotion.

“I leave the band,” Zayn says. Harry inhales on a sob, chest hurting as his pulse jumps. “I leave, and you spend a year or so refusing to pick up your phone.”

“Zayn --”

“It’s not enough,” Zayn says. He leans forward again. His eyes are much more gentle than Harry thinks they should be, considering the way he’s talking, what he’s talking about -- leaving, and the inevitability that they’ll just.

Stop.

It feels like there’s a sharp shard of glass wedged underneath Harry’s ribs and _he can’t breathe_ \-- Zayn steadies him, hands cupping Harry’s face again, and Harry nuzzles into the warmth of his palm to chase away how terrified his heart feels.

“It’s not enough,” Zayn repeats, pressing their foreheads together. Harry whimpers. “But I promise you it’s worth it.”

 

 

The sun wakes Harry up, shining brightly in his face, curtains open to the world. He feels hungover, aching all over, throat thick and parched. He rolls over, reaches for the other side of the bed reflexively, but there’s no Zayn.

An ache of disappointment flares in Harry’s chest. Like he really did expect someone to be there, like he should have woken up with Zayn lying next him, but Harry has no idea know why. He’s been alone all week.

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/163166362747/the-futures-so-bright-zaynharry-25k)


End file.
